


Sketches

by Angels_Grace



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fictober 2019, Ineffable Inktober, M/M, One Shot, One Word Prompts, SO MUCH FLUFF, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-09 05:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angels_Grace/pseuds/Angels_Grace
Summary: I saw the ineffable inktober prompts and I knew that I had to use them as writing prompts. Enclosed are a series of one -shots responding to the prompt of the day. They've taken on a loose continuiy but should all be readable as stand alones.





	1. Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I write these all on my morning commute and edit them on the way home. At first this was just going to be a fun challenge because i've never really written to prompts before. I know that my normal fics are hella angsty and theese all came out as pure fluff. I think you deserved them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 1st - Stars

The bench at the Lower Tadfield bus stop was miraculously comfortable for a plank of wood balanced rather precariously on two uneven lumps of stone. An angel and demon were perching on it, watching an impossible sunset.

"Isn't it strange?" Aziraphale asked as the sky darkened.  
"After the day I've had, you're going to have to be more specific, angel." Crowley said. Wrinkling his soot darkened nose. Aziraphale gave him a look of fond exasperation. He really didn't blame him.  
"We saved all of this. Helped to, I mean. I suppose Adam did most of the heavy saving." He mused.  
"Under your guidance, angel." Crowley assured him and grinned as Aziraphale preened.

"I just mean that the earth, it's here for good now, fixed on its orbit forever." He said. Crowley glanced up, feeling the turn of the earth, the nitrogen of the air in his skin. He strained his gaze heavenwards, but even in the clear skies of Tadfield, his weak eyes showed him not a single star. He looked down bitterly and miracled a very nice bottle of wine from RP Tyler's private store.Aziraphale watched the silent exchange with universe as silently as he always did, knowing hat to speak bout would givethe demon’s pain form, that it would lead to talking about his fall, their feelings. That was water they responsibly steered clear of.

Aziraphale hesitated and held his hand out to the demon. Crowley looked at him uncertainly and offered him the bottle, misreading the gesture with a strange innocence. He took it and carefully balanced it between them, taking the demon's hand instead.

He spluttered, trying to recoil but the angel held firm, slipping his fingers between Crowley's. "What are you doing Aziraphale?" He asked, voice higher than the angel had ever heard it. The demon rarely used h is full name, his head was swimming with the sound of it on his lips.  
"Showing you something." He said simply.  
"I know what your hand looks like." He scoffed, despite Aziraphale's raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale turned his eyes up, focusing on the tapestry of stars above them. Beside him, Crowley's eyes went slack, almost vacant before sparking back to life, widening in awe. "What have you done?" He breathed. A dizzying sensation overtook him as he felt his eyes darting around erratically, but Aziraphale’s steady stare didn’t falter.

"Lent you my eyes, dear. It's been a while since you've seen them, I think." He longed to turn and glance at Crowley, to watch him watching his creations turn in the heavens, but whatever Aziraphale saw, Crowley saw. He focused on the waves of emotion rolling off the demon instead, it was more intoxicating than any wine they had shared in six thousand years.

He didn't see Crowley reaching blindly for his lapels. He barely had time to tear his eyes away from the firmament as a hand fisted in his shirt front, dragging him across the bench. He found the demon's lips against his own, Crowley's tears on his face. Crowley felt his own sight return to him at the loss of the angel’s hand but he couldn't help himself, twisting his fingers into Aziraphale's short hair to keep him close instead. 

Finally, he let Aziraphale pull back, not really sure how to explain away the kiss, or if he even wanted to. "My dear ..." Aziraphale said, a little dazed. "A simple thank you would have sufficed."  
"For all the stars in the sky? Not on your life." He whispered; throat rough.  
"Well, we have all the time in the world to enjoy them, my love." Aziraphale said gently, taking Crowley's hand once more. He grinned, turning his face back to the sky. In the recesses of his mind he began to wonder if this might be what Agnes meant, if they could share more than eyes.


	2. Candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2nd - Candy
> 
> Anathema encounters a very hyper gang of ruffians blocking her way to the post office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? mixing show quotes into new and weird scenes with totally different characters? It's more likely than you'd think.

"You probably look at these and go 'ohh candy'." Brian said in a worldly tone.   
"But they're called sweets actually." Wensleydale supplied. The them were ranged in a little huddle around the door of the post office, pick and mix bags already half empty and crystallised sugar spread across their faces. Anathema winced as they're auras started to flicker and jump, hopped up on all the sugar. She was rather regretting asking what they were up to.

Despite the glare, she took another look at Adams aura in particular, checking it was still there, that he was still happy to take the form of a mortal human child. As ever, the practice didn't really relax her. His aura was pearly, ethereal, like looking at the very centre of a flame. She snapped herself out of it and smiled brightly. Too brightly. They may have been children but they were still British. Smiling made them overly suspicious.

"You sending something?" Adam asked, nodding back to the post office. She opened her mouth to answer but Pepper cut in.  
"I bet you’re sending a curse." She said, eyes bright.  
"These days witches don’t really-" she tried to correct her, but she was cut off.  
"Or a potion." Brian said, eyes wide.  
"Actually, she doesn't have a parcel. She's obviously picking something up." Wensleydale   
cut in anxiously.  
"A caldron! Do you want me to carry it for you?" Adam said. Dog yapped excitedly at his side, eager to join in the cacophony.

The last thing Anathema needed was another display of Adams inhuman strength. She held her hands up.   
"Guys! Guys! I'm posting a letter." She said, taking a thick parchment envelope from her bag. It was inlaid with decorative gold scrollwork in the corners.  
"So Mr. Aziraphale wrote your invitation to the Halloween party?" Pepper asked smugly.   
"He did. It was six pages long." She sighed "I need to send it back to him before the RSVP date goes by. He seemed very fixed on today."  
"But it's only the 2nd! Halloween is ages away." Brian said. Anathema just shrugged. She watched in confusion as pepper held her hand out threateningly towards Adam. He huffed but acquiesced, handing over the rest of his sweets. Anathema glanced between them, wondering what kind of pure fearlessness Pepper must be made of to extort the antichrist, hellhound at his heel.

"They had a bet." Wensleydale whispered fretfully, as though his parents had warned him against the evils of gambling.   
"On what?" Anathema asked.  
"That Mr. Crowley wrote our invitations and Mr Aziraphale did all the grown up one's."  
"How did you know?" she frowned. Wensleydale pulled a tiny little wallet from his pocket, producing an incredibly slick black business card, the only card he had. He offered it to Anathema. In words printed a slightly darker shade of black, it read:

YOU ARE COMING TO A PARTY.

"There was nothing else?" She frowned, tipping it in the light to see if any more subtle text was revealed.  
"Nah, they ask just appeared on our pillows one morning." Adam shrugged.  
"And your parents are okay with it?" She asked, but they were already bickering over the candy in their bags, starting up a complex bargaining chain that she couldn't follow.  
"My mum got one like yours." Wensleydale said quietly. "I think Mr Aziraphale must have found out and sent an explanation." He added. Anathema smiled and slipped into the post office. She certainly wouldn't put it past the two of them.


	3. Lazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 3rd - Lazy
> 
> started off as a lazy demon in bed, but then I threw in feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My phone keeps autocorrecting Crowley to Crusty and at 7am on the underground, that is the funniest shit to me

“You are an eternal being. Will. You. Stop. Moping." Aziraphale snapped after even his most angelic head tilt in the late morning light had left Crowley unmoved.  
"M'not moping, angel." Crowley huffed. "Demon's don't mope, we lurk."  
"Well, it's hardly that threatening, look at you." He sighed. Crowley looked more like a slug than a serpent, wrapped around and around in the duvet with a tuft of red hair poking out. He looked rather like a fig roll. Aziraphale was just wondering if he could go and get himself a plate of the snacks when Crowley started grumbling again.

"I didn't mean to offend you, dear. I was simply stating a fact." The angel sighed.  
"An opinion. A wrong opinion." He corrected, voice muffled by the blankets. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"You asked to write an invitation."  
"And I did." He insisted.

"What you created was akin to an advertisement for a ... a ...burlesque. it was totally inappropriate, Crowley." He admonished.  
"A what?" The demon asked, his attention caught.  
"You know very well what kind of establishment I'm referring to." He blushed.  
"No, you're going to have to spell it out angel." He saied, eyes appearing over the top of the blanket, blazing with mischief.  
"One of those strip tease shows that you had so much fun at in the 60s." He elaborated.

"Are you trying to say I made sleazy business cards to send to children, Aziraphale?" He pressed his lips together as Crowley laughed. "What the body hell would you know about a strip club, Aziraphale?" He asked, eyes creeping overhim to pin him in place.  
"Occasionally one has to ah ... frequent ... unseemly locations to spread the light of The Lord." He said in discomfort.  
"An angel in a den of iniquity...." Crowley sighed.  
"Stop enjoying the thought Crowley." He said sternly. Crowley retreated with a giggle.

"That's not what they looked like, angel." He said placatingly, an arm working free to pat the angel’s knee. He moved away from it petulantly, perfectly aware that it was him acting up now.  
"Well you would know." He muttered.  
"Kids like things that look grown-up." He shrugged.  
"How in heaven would you know what children like?" Aziraphale snorted.  
“I was until very recently a Nanny.” He reminded him.   
“So you knew what Warlock liked. Hardly a representative sample.”

"I had kids once." He said, voice suddenly far away.  
"What?"  
"Oh, come on Aziraphale. You've taken in urchins before. Why is it such a surprise that I adopted some too?"  
"Yes, I took in some children and I was appropriately reprimanded. Gabriel was furious ... I can't imagine what hell would do."  
"I just told Beelzebub they were indentured, told them to look sad whether they turned up. It wasn't hard. They smelt even worse back then. Downstairs liked the arrangement better than me paying for a manservant." He explained.  
"Wait was this in the 1700s? I didn't like it when you made yourself a Lord... At least some good came of it if you took on some wards." He said. He understood hy the demon had hidden from him in thise years, the decades that followed. That Kind of loss, inevitable as it was, had been haunting for both of them. Human lives were so filled with joy and so very very short. He knew enough not to ask why Crowley had never shared it with him.

Aziraphale tentatively worked his way under the blanket with him, wrapping him in his arms instead. Crowley was wearing that distant look that crossed his face every century or so. He knew what it meant now. He was broody. How incredible it was, six thousand years and he could still learn something new about his demon.


	4. Cozy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 4th - Cozy
> 
> I just really love Crowley's wings??????

The sunset over London had aged life a fine wine. In the old days, the sky had slumped imperceptibly from periwinkle to darkness. As Aziraphale leant against the glass of Crowley's balcony, the blue evening ignited in a lilac sunset, pinky hues on the very edge of the city promising a spectacular show. 

He glanced around as a blanket was draped over his shoulders.  
"You'll catch your death." Crowley smiled.  
"I'm an angel. I don't get cold." He said.  
"Maybe I have other motives.” He conceded.  
“Such as?” The angel asked archly.  
“You're looking scandalous, Zira. No coat, sleeves rolled back." He grinned, wrapping his arms around him too. “You’ll make all the fine gentleman swoon.” He teased. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, pushing back into the demon's warmth. 

Crowley followed his eyes into the sunset. "You know it's all the chemicals in the atmosphere, right?" He said "all those monoxides and dioxides ... A big man-made soup refracting the sunlight, bending it into all those colours." He said matter-of-factly. Aziraphale glanced back with a frown "Ever the romantic..." He muttered, the glory of the evening looking a little less rapturous in his eyes now.

“I can be plenty romantic, angel.” He purred, nuzzling into the nape of his neck.   
“Tempting and romantic are two entirely different things, my love.” He hummed. Crowley rested his sharp chin on the angel’s shoulder, watching the world turn to a dusky pink and a radiant orange. It was beautiful, he supposed. It bored him. Instead, he watched the evening wind pick up, stirring the very ends of Aziraphale’s hair. It was getting longer, passing the strict uniform length demanded by heaven. He imagined the angel with longer hair, maybe a beard. He had to bite his lip to stop a little sound escaping him. He had bounced from style to style over the centuries, never able to stay still for long. Aziraphale had been his constant, it thrilled him to think of seeing something change about his angel.

“Not that I mind my dear, but why are your wings…?” He gestured. Crowley glanced up at the black feathers towering behind him. He flapped them idly, stretching.   
“You looked cold.” He said, enclosing the angel in their warm span, keeping the precious sight of him hoarded for himself.


	5. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 5th - Garden
> 
> Crowley has a surprise for his angel.

"Nearly there, angel." Crowley said softly, rousing the ethereal being in the passenger seat from the book he had been reading.  
"Hm... I don't think I've ever been here before." He said, gazing around at the scenery moving by at a very un-Crowley-like speed. "Why are you being so mysterious about this?" he asked with a little smile.  
"S'a surprise." He grinned. “I thought they were supposed to be mysterious?”  
"Crowleyyyyy." He whined. The angel really could be a brat when he wanted. Crowley supposed it was his own fault for spoiling him so much. He promised himself that this was the only secret he’d ever keep and he was so nearly ready to share it.

"I need to watch the road." He said, turning back to the countryside to keep his eyes off the angel who knew exactly how to wring information out of him. His eyes had already gone big and dewy, bottom lip in a pout that made Crowley want to pull the Bentley to the side of the road and kiss him until the sun set. He tightened his hands on the wheel, tightened his resolve.

"Is it a present?" Aziraphale asked innocently, probing how much the demon would reveal.  
"You think I'm going to drag you all the way to the South Downs and not give you something?" He asked, barely containing his grin. "Hold tight angel, we're nearly there.” He said, picking up the pace just enough to distract Aziraphale with thoughts of imminent discorporation. It stopped his questions, and it meant he would get his answers all the sooner.

A few minutes of Aziraphale gasping and covering his eyes, the Bentley rolled to a seamless halt at the bottom of a very abandoned dirt track. It lay just below the rise of a hill so Aziraphale wouldn't set his surprise just yet. "Are ... Are we having a picnic?" He asked in confusion, barely able to contain himself as he waited for his demon to come around and open his door. Crowley just smiled, holding his hand out to the angel. Aziraphale accepted and stepped carefully out onto the grassy path. Not a speck of dirt would attach itself to his precious old shoes. Crowley had ensured it. 

He started pulling him up the hill, his own excitement finally getting the better of him. It was a git he had waited so long to give. "You'll love it angel ... Or I hope you will." he said, suddenly hesitating. Had all that time been wasted? Would it embarrass the angel? Would it embarrass him? Aziraphale saw the indescision stall his love, pausing them halfway up he hill like that indamnible man the Duke of York all the way back in ****.

"My dear, it's a gift from you, how could I not adore it, even if it is in the middle of a field?" He touched his face sweetly "It's not a cow is it? I haven't the space for a cow, Crowley." He said seriously, face darkening as he tried to work what it could be. The demon laughed.   
"It's not a cow. But you might have space for one now, if you were of a bovine persuasion."  
"What on earth does that mean?" He huffed, knowing Crowley wouldn't tell him until he wanted to.

Crowley squeezed his hand as the hill levelled out and there, against the perfect crisp blue of an autumn sky, stood a cottage. "Is ... Is my present inside?" Aziraphale asked, but from his breathless tone it was easy for Crowley to see that he had guessed, was barely daring to hope.

He raised the angel's hand to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles before laying his hand on the wooden gate. "Welcome home, love." He said softly, hopefully.

He watched Aziraphale’s eyes widen, watched him try and drink in every inch of the cottage at once. They flitted from the creamy stone work trellised with ivy, the sash windows, the slightly crooked path, the garden blooming well out of season, the sunny, egg yolk yellow of the door. His eyes eventually settled on the wall that ran on a perfect square around the property. It was like he could only process the enormity of the gift in stages. "It's warded, every inch of it. You'll be safe here Aziraphale." He said, misreading his expression.

"These look like- they feel like-" Aziraphale bit his lip and stopped himself.   
"Well … you loved that Garden so much, I thought having the same wall around it might give this one a fighting chance." Crowley shrugged, as if rebuilding the wall of Eden was barely worth mentioning. Tears ran down Aziraphale's face as he passed through the gate, the eastern sunrise at his back, and felt the old embrace of Eden.

"They were lost, every stone," he breathed.  
"Not to me." He said, following and closing the gate behind them. He had taken his glasses off before he stepped into the garden, he vowed he would never wear them here, in their home.

The stones were unrecognisable to the human eye, of course. Six thousand years had eroded the mighty slabs to the size of bricks, smaller even. The wind had carved them into flowing shapes that Crowley had lovingly slotted together and threaded into a tapestry. "Most of them are sand now. I found just enough to do this ... For you.” He smiled as the angel glanced at him in disbelief. He passed him and walked to the edge of the garden, closing his eyes as his hand found the prefect stone, the one that had been in his possession for six thousand years. It was the very first to be lost from the wall. He had hoarded it for eons. His eyes opened and found the puzzled gaze of the angel. “I was standing on that stone when I knew I’d lost my soul to you. You had given away your sword." He said simply, trailing his hand along the wall to another. “And there you were, fretting.” He smiled.

He asked, glancing back at Aziraphale. He was shaking with the strength of his silent sobs, his hand pressed over his mouth. It was too much for him, the love Crowley had built into the bones of the house radiating outwards, the demon himself, looking so vulnerable. He couldn’t take it. "Oh angel, you've only seen the garden.” he smiled.


	6. Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 6th - Shopping
> 
> Exploring the village.

"You already have books angel. A whole shop of them, in fact." Crowley said, but there was no heat in his reprimand. Nevertheless, the angel looked guiltily over his shoulder and dropped the book to its stand.

They had been in the cottage on the Downs for a few days. Aziraphale had been loath to ever step outside of it again, but provisions were running low and Crowley would not have him want for anything in that place. They had taken the short walk over the Moors easily, hand in hand and utterly at peace. It wasn't until they reached the edge of the village that Aziraphale had slowed, giving voice to the same feeling he had at Tadfield Manor. He had found the village loved almost as much as the cottage. Crowley had gone off to the butcher and Aziraphale had gravitated to a twee little bookshop. It was filled with ordinate survey maps and books about the local area, but he had dug out some beautifully worn down classics, read and reread with love. 

"But all of my books are so far away, and I have these new lovely shelves to fill." He sighed. Crowley raised his eyebrows and the most precious volumes in the world slipped out of existence in London, re-emerging in the cottage. Aziraphale felt it like a shiver. "My treat." The demon said, picking up the books Aziraphale had been holding and heading inside.  
"It feels like everything is your treat these days." He accused gently. The demon grinned.

"Mr. Crowley." A pink-faced older gentleman behind the counter boomed. He was still plump with the energy of his youth, pink-cheeked and nosed. His hair was a glorious white and he wore a tartan waistcoat. Aziraphale rather thought that if he had been created a human, he would have been this man. Crowley must have thought so too, because he laid on more than his usual charm to the bookseller. It was like being through the looking glass.  
"What can I do you for, Son?" He asked, eyeing the books.   
"Some light reading for my gentleman caller." He said, nodding at Aziraphale as he put the tomes on the till. Aziraphale blushed deeply but the shopkeeper smiled.

"So, you're Anthony's fancy man in the city? Bunch of romantics, his lot. His father was working on that house when I moved to the village, a gift for his mother. Such a shame she never got to see it, poor lamb. Then a few years later, here comes the son, just as sappy, doing the place up for his gentleman friend. I never thought of see the day a Crowley and their other half would settle into that old cottage." He grinned fondly.

"It's not full time, Peter. Not yet, at least." Crowley chided gently, blushing a rare shade. "Ezra still has things to attend to in London." The demon took him by surprise, he hadn't gone by that name since the Victorian era, but he supposed he would need a human name here, he had somewhat missed being Ezra Fell, eccentric man about town.  
"That's a shame, well they’re on the house, one bookseller to another." He winked.  
Aziraphale could not be tempted to part with the man until he had promised him a visit to AZ Fell and Company next time he was in the city.


	7. OOTD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 7th - OOTD
> 
> The ineffable idiots try to shake up their wardrobes

"Good lord." Aziraphale hissed, closing his eyes tightly as he attempted to unsee Crowley's latest creation. These past few months of retirement had finally driven him to madness in his boredom.

He was standing in front of the floor length mirror in his room, trying on clothes that he had miracled into existence around him. The offending look consisted of a black and red Hawaiian shirt, incredibly short black shorts and black flip flops. In truth Aziraphale's reaction only bought him time for his eyes to linger on quite how many shirt buttons Crowley had left undone. 

"What's wrong with it, angel?" He demanded.  
"Well it's hardly practical for London." He floundered. In truth there was nothing wrong with it, very much the opposite.  
"I wasn’t going to wear it in London." He corrected. Aziraphale had to admit he was slightly hurt that Crowley was taking off without him. It wasn't that they had to do everything together, just that Aziraphale had an infinitely better time when they did.

"Where were you planning to wear it?" He asked petulantly.   
"S'a big world, angel. I thought now that we'd saved it, we could go enjoy some of it." He smiled. Aziraphale blushed, slowly moving closer to the demon, sizing him up again. "It is very you, I suppose." He demurred, feeling foolish.

"Then you dress me, angel." Crowley said, opening his arms.  
"Really?" He asked, eyes widening.  
"Of course, but I get to dress you in return." He said with a wicked smirk. The angel swallowed. This felt more like an internal temptation than the demon had ever offered. He knew only too well what kind of ridiculous things the demon would miracle him into. He blushed fiercely.

"Anything I like?" He asked.  
"For any occasion or destination." He promised. The angel circled him, almost a predatory look in his eye as first the flip flops then the shirt vanished. The demon didn't shy away, just grinning all the louder.

He miracle a faded green plaid shirt into being, the sleeves rolled back to Crowley’s elbow. It collided in the most beautiful way with his hair. He allowed him jeans of the darkest blue and brown shoes. The finishing touch was one of those broen h=jackets with the white fleece inside, He looked so soft. He hadn’t been brave enough to gave him his favourite look on him. He often thought back to the white jacket he had worn to Warlock Dowling’s eleventh birthday party, the brilliance of it seared into his mind. This was a close second to it.

"I look like a bloody academic." Crowley huffed, though he twisted in the mirror, taking in more if the sight.

"Your turn." He smiled, snapping his angel bare before he could protest. He made shocked little gasp and made to shield himself before Crowley pulled his hands away. With the quirk of an eyebrow black shirt and trousers appeared, swiftly followed by a burgundy Herringbone waist coat and bowtie. 

"Oh!" The angel said. He peered at the ensemble and smoothed down the already pristine waistcoat in a characteristic gesture. "I look rather dapper. A little bit sexy." He admitted with a blush.  
"Of course you would find this sexy." Crowley muttered, but his usual warmth was lacking. Aziraphale glanced at his expression in the mirror. His eyebrows were pulled down over his eyes.  
"My dear?" He asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  
"S'nothing." He said "well, I just realised they're demon colours aren't they?” He said uncomfortably. Aziraphale twisted to look back in the mirror at the black with touches of blood red. "I don't think I would still be so … me as a demon." He commented. He remembered how different Raphael and Crowley were, even if he could not. 

"Besides." He said brightly "it's not like I wear the colours I do because of heaven." He shrugged.  
"It's not?" Crowley frowned, thinking of his angelic palatte.  
"You don't know?" He said, brow furrowing "then forget it." He said quickly, tugging at his new bow tie.  
"Oh c'mon angel. You can’t give me a mystery like that and then backtrack" He whined.  
"Well I did some research about what colours snakes can see..." He said. If he had been blushing before, the angel was incandescent with embarrassment now.

Crowley’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. There was no quip that could equalise them again, no tease or jab that would save them from the admission.  
"From the moment you convinced me that robes were most definitely out of style." Aziraphale smiled bashfully. 

With a click Aziraphale was back in his usual shirt and a new pair of soft grey trousers. The demon crossed to him and carefully rolled the sleeves up by hand. He poured his attention into it fixedly, eyes consciously away from Aziraphale’s face until he was ready and the angel's strong forearm was half exposed. "A mix of our colours ... Promise I can still see you." He murmured, the barest pink haze across his high cheekbones.


	8. Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 8th - Pirates
> 
> Babysitting leads to some nostalgia and i'm finally living my Golden Age of Piracy fantasy

“Do you know any good stories?" Adam asked, laying aside the New Aquarian he had been reading on the floor, Dog staring up at him adoringly with its chin on his knee.  
"Aziraphale is best with books." Crowley said, looking up from his phone.   
"No. I want a proper story... A true one." He whined.  
"Well I have been around a bit, what kind of story do you want?" Crowley frowned.

"Pirates." Adam answered immediately. Crowley smiled. He glanced at the door to check Aziraphale was still busy in the bookshop and settled in to tell the story. "The year was 1718 And I was working aboard the good ship _The William_…”

He closed his eyes and felt the sea air bristling against long hair. He had been a woman then, staring out across the empty sea. From the nest, the call came. The sea wasn't so empty after all. British Navy to the starboard bow. Three ships in battle formation. Crowley pulled a cutlass from her hip and prepared to rally her crew, but of course it wasn't Crowley they called her, it was Captain.

"Right you braggards! Bring her about; starboard cannons." She roared, face like thunder. "We're facing them?" Her first mate demanded.  
"Let's run, we've got a head start." One of the crew reasoned, eyeing the destroyers on the horizon.

"You think you're going to out run three of her majesties finest with a hold full of gold?" she demanded. "Where would you run out here? Where would you hide? Cowards. They would riddle us with canon blasts from the stern. No miracle would save your sorry souls then." She lambasted them until they scattered.

As the crew jumped to attention, hauling sails and opening canon heads, she smiled a private smile. Aziraphale was on one of those ships. She could feel it. How like her angel, to join the Navy. She wondered how he would look in his uniform and her smile grew wicked. She positioned herself at the bow in a visible spot, waiting to be seen.

The first two ship turned and readied their own canons. She could hear the bellowed orders on the wind. She raised her hand, staying her own fire. Each ship loosed a projectile which served wildly just as they were about to close with the ship. "It's a miracle..." The first mate whispered.

"None of that talk under my flag. Take this two down. Leave the third." She ordered. She sheathed her cutlass and grabbed the rigging, climbing up to the nest, breaching with every below of her cannons.   
"Captain!" The boy on lookout squeaked in shock.   
"Telescope. Now." She demanded. He handed it over and all but jumped from the crow’s nest. Fear her they might, but the men all still thought it an omen to have a woman aboard, let alone running the operation.

She raised the telescope to her eye and found him immediately, like magnetism. He was staring up at her, angelic eyes needing no assistance. She grinned. It has been decades. His blonde curls were longer, forced into the polite ringlets of an admiral. They shone silver against the blue of his uniform. Her smile only faltered when she saw the sadness in his expression. He distinctly mouthed two words 'they'll drown.'

"Let them. They'd do the she to my crew." She snapped, seeing him sigh in frustration. This was wrong. They were together again, only a few hundred metres parting them. He shouldn't be angry with her. This was not the game of cat and mouse she had so carefully measured across the centuries. "Decimate them." She snarled to the crew below, and the fire redoubled. She watched with a savage joy as the prize of the navy slipped below the waves. Aziraphale just stared with mournful eyes. She was a demon, this was what she was made for, chaos and destruction. Why did he have to look at her like that? Like she had a soul worth saving?

"They won’t die angel, not really. The current passes over a coral reef." She sighed, giving into his idiotic goodness like she always did. He always thwarts me, she thought dryly. "Go west, you'll find them waiting." She sighed, watching Aziraphale's face transform. "Don't mention it, just let me have my get away." She said. He gave a short not as the second ship was lost.

"Ceasefire! Make to port, unfurl the mainsail and man the oars. We're headed for the southern cove." She yelled. She didn’t look back at the angel, she couldn’t his glee was a reminder of what a pathetic demon she really was. As she slid down from the nest, miracles demonic and angelic speed her voyage, taking her from Aziraphale again. She stood at the aft, watching his ship dwindle into the horizon. It wouldn't be long until she saw him again, she could feel it in her bones.

"Crowley you can't tell him about that!" Aziraphale snapped from the kitchen doorway.  
"Why not angel?" He drawled, coming back to the present. Adam and dog were staring at him with rapt attention.  
"All that they and destruction of property. It's hardly a good example. No let me tell you Adam, privateering is no trade for an honest boy. Its disease ridden and dangerous." Aziraphale insisted, the shine of Adam’s eyes diminishing as Aziraphale raged.

When Adam had grown bored enough to go play with Dog, Aziraphale gave him a nostalgic look. "You looked rather fetching in those pantaloons." He admitted.

"Maybe I'll dig them out for you angel." He winked "if you still have the jacket."


	9. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 9th - Dance
> 
> Flashback to Portland place, an angel and a demon dace.
> 
> Behold, every trope I love in a single chapter

Aziraphale gave a perfumed sigh, staring out across the dancefloor. All of his new acquaintances were there. Hughes was leading the dance, with Hendricks and O’Donnel close behind. Jackson sat in an armchair to his left, watching Aziraphale watch them all.

“Won’t you join them Ezra?” He asked timidly. “Perhaps I could take the liberty of requesting the next dance?” He added, looking extemelt embaressed as Aziraphale looked back to him.  
“Oh that’s very kind of you Fabian, dear. I’m afraid that I would give you an injury. I’m passable at the Gavotte but a risk to my partners for anything else. Why don’t you ask young Jones? He would be most receptive I believe.” He smiled softly.

He loved this discreet little club on the corner of Portland Place. Of course he knew the reputation of places like this, why men came here. He was similar to them in that it was the only place he could truly relax, be himself and find companionship, a friendly touch, a conversation about literature and the newest of his fascinations, the gavotte.

The jovial beat started up and Aziraphale thrilled. He pretended to demur the calls for him to grace the floor. “Come along Ezra.” They cheered. “Join us Mr. Fell!” Some of the younger men ventured. He stood with apoiltely embarrassed air, getting patted on the pack as he took his customary place in the middle of the line, linking arms with the fuery haired O’Donnel and the refined old Hughes.

He laughed as they surged in each direction, completing a series of toe taps and flourished before the line broke, hands trailing as they all moved in differend directions. He particularly enjoyed his brief mini dance with O’Donnel. It was the only time he let himself imagine it was another tempremental red head he was dancig with. He doubted that either would be thrilled with the comparison. He bit back his sigh of disappointment as the touch of hands elicited nothing in him, not even the predatory glint in his eye, that would have normally flustered him, stirred him.

His mind was across London. It had been years since he had seen his demon. No. Not his. Not even remotely his. The only thing Crowley was to him was an enemy. He scolded himself as he muddled the steps. How dare Crowley after sulking away years of their time so rudely interrupt the dancing he had taken up to forget him? It was impertinence of the highest order.

A strong pair of hands righted him and the strangest feeling of familiarity washed over him. “Crowley.” He beamed, swivelling around. Yet again the pernicious O’Donnel faced him. “Watch your feet dear Ezra, or the dance will carry you away. May I have the next one?” He asked. Something in him, some dashed hope made him bold.   
“If you don’t mind teaching me it.” He conceded, O’Donnel grinned and as some dancers filered away at the end of the dance and Aziraphale did not, whispers began.

“Mr. Fell is staying up?” a put out Jackson demanded.  
“Luck of the Irish.” O’Donnel smiled, taking Aziraphale in hand and calling a request to the band who looked similarly confused, almost as though they would have played another Gavotte to placate the well turned out gentlwman. Still, the feeling of being watched was more specific than Aziraphale would have liked. It was as though Crowley was near, paying attention the every hand placement, every turn.

Aziraphale blushed. There was no reason he shouldn’t be out on the town, dancing with fine men. What right did Crowley have to stop him? And why had he felt so relieved when he thought him close? No. It was simply a reaction to seeing an old acquaintance again, they joy of a reunion.

The number turned out to be rather too close for Aziraphale to be comfortable in. O’Donnel’s hands were everywhere and nowhere all at once, it was like dancing with smoke, though smoke would have complained less when he stepped on its toes. Still, it was entertainment for his dear friends if nothing else.

Aziraphale was about to return to his customary chair and try to hide within it’s soft green velvet when The crowd froze, arms lifted in applause or in unhanding their partners, eyes glassy.

“You do always make such a scene, angel.” Crowley drawled, watching over him from the mezzanine where all the club’s bookshelves lined the tall walls. Azirahale’s joy wilted when he saw the sneer on the demon’s face.  
“It was an innocent enough diversion!” He protested. “It’s not as though I have much else to do these days. Thwarting has been rather thin on the ground.” He said pointedly. The demon ignored that last as he made his way down to the floor.  
“Innocent? You may be able to sense love, angel, but lust is my area of expertise. This fellow.” He peered into O’Donnels fixed gaze. “was anything but innocent.” He layed his hand on Aziraphale, guiding him with tender intensity out of the frozen hold.

“Whatever gave him such an impression!” Aziraphale huffed, cheeks aflame.  
“Oh you can’t blame them, they’re only human. They’re drawn to you, moths to a divine flame.” He snarled, an energy radiating from him that Aziraphale couldn’t place. He thought it best not to respond.

“Where on earth have you been Crowley? I have been worried beyond belief.” He snapped instead.  
“I thought our little arrangement had become repulsive to you. I removed it for you. How nice of you to worry about me, angel.” He purred. He was circling Aziraphale, working himself into a rage. His steps made no vibrations on the hardwood floor.  
“Don’t call me that.” He said, looking for anything to snap about. In all honesty, Crowley had every right to be mad at him.  
“You’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re an angel and I a lowly demon. Why shouldn’t I point it out, _Aziraphale_?” He drawled.  
“Because … these past months it had become rather popular as a form of endearment.” He hissed, as though the frozen revellers could hear.  
“And that offends your sensibilities I assume?” He smirked. He didn’t respond. This was a conversation he was centuries away from being ready for.

“Dance with me angel” He asked, tone much softer.  
“No music…” The angel murmured. With a snap of his fingers, the band reanimated, playing a slow number, Crowley offered him a gloved hand and he took it without protest. He should have expected Crowley to lead, but the hand at his waist caused him to gasp. The demon ignored it, eeping a straight face as the angel’s other hand sought purchase on his shoulder, Crowley mostly just swayed them, letting them drink in their thoughts as the music wavered on.   
  
“Where have you been, my dear?” He asked again, quietly.  
“Sleeping.” He said quietly.  
“All this time?” Aziraphale asked. It sounded so lonely, so sad. The demon nodded, hesitating.  
“Didn’t see much point in consciousness. Had no-one to thwart.” He muttered as he turned them “I only got up to stretch my legs.” He added.  
“In my club? What a lucky coincidence.” Aziraphale said, letting his head tip forward onto the demon’s shoulder. It felt so nice, to be held by him, so nice that he didn’t fight it, he just let himself be.  


“Lucky?” The demon echoed.  
“Well. I was rash that day in the park. What you asked for … it frightened me more than I could say. In truth, I have missed you terribly.” He admitted, looking up to him. The tension ran out of Crowley in a moment. Aziraphale could see the amber of his eyes behind his spectacles.  
“So you’ve changed your mind?” He asked.

Aziraphale pulled back from him sharply, “Heavens no. And I never shall! I want to be with you Crowley, but it’s too great a price to pay. I won’t give you the means to exterminate yourself. I would rather you quit me for good in the knowledge you were safe than dance with you every night, a sword atop your head.”  
“Ridiculous.” The demon said, pushing his glasses back up his nose to hide his eyes once more.

“If I asked, would you douse me in Hellfire, right now in this moment.”  
“That’s not why I want it.”  
“I don’t care. Accidents happen Crowley, even to us. Would you package up hellfire and let me keep in some corner of the bookshop for a rainy day? Well? Would you?” He demanded, embarrassed by the tears filling his eyes.

“Fine angel. You’ve made your point.” He said through gritted teeth. They both stood there awkwardly. “I’ll let you get back to toying with your humans. When they all expire, you’ll know where to find me.” He said tightly, voice full of too much meaning.

Before Aziraphale could argue, the party was alive once more, though much hollower than before. He watched Crowley weave his way out of the hall, vanishing through a heavy oak doorway. He looked around at these men, the poets and musicians he indulged, often in more than dancing, and he felt so ashamed, like he was using them for his own distraction. He was an angel. He ought to know better. Crowley was right, these human pleasures weren’t meant for him. Their human lives were gone in an instant, he was dancing with ghosts.


	10. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 10th - Cold
> 
> an angel's wrath burns cold

The fog was thick from the upper windows of the cottage, the moors lending the night a cloak. Aziraphale sat in the window, staring out. It was always foggy on the moors, usually he liked it, but tonight it made him uneasy.

He glanced over his shoulder to the peacefully sleeping demon. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him and read. Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, like a fraying thread. Whatever it was lurked out on the moors, he was sure of it.

He slipped on his dressing gown and slippers and made his way down the stairs. He turned the lights on in the lounge, their warm glow irradiating the fog beyond. He took a deep breath and opened the door. His skin prickled as he stepped out. Something about the pressure of the atmosphere was all wrong for this time of year, this type of weather. He could feel electricity building in his teeth, like there was a storm abroad.

He paced around the house, following the line of the wall. Crowley had told him it was warded against heaven and hell alike. He channelled just a touch of angelic energy into the wall and every few paces, a hidden symbol illuminated in a glowing white.

On the south side of the garden, Aziraphale found a little pile of dirt on the pristine lawn, next to a thoroughly munched on rhododendron bush. Some rabbits had burrowed under the wall and defaced the plant. They must be brave to disobey a demon’s warding, Aziraphale thought, fondly miracling the plant back to full health. The last thing Crowley needed was a blood feud with the wildlife.

He wondered if that small intrusion would have been enough to trigger his unease, but he glanced back at the wall that stood over the burrow. If he had measured properly, there should be some kind of sigil or rune glowing directly above it.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said softly. “The wall’s been breached.” His tone was calm, but it carried to his uninvited visitor, lurking between him and the house. He was suddenly glad he’d shut the door. Crowley would be safe within the second layer of warding. What an idiot he had been to come out on his own.  
“Sorry about that.” The reply came “Never tempted a rabbit before, took some doing.” A disposable demon appeared. With a wave, Aziraphale repaired the lawn. The symbol glowed once more.  
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” The demon smirked, hands eep in his pockets, utterly at ease.  
“I’m not one for late night visitors I’m afraid, I thought we’d keep this between us.” He smiled.  
“Like I said … it’s a little late for that.” They smiled, two clones coming around the corner, one from either side of the house.

Aziraphale smiled kindly, wishing yet again that he had kept hold of his sword. “Right well … I suppose we best get on with it. But I’d be obliged if you would keep quiet. My demon is sleeping rather soundly.” He said.  
“So the rumours are true.” One sneered as they started to circle him.  
“I wonder what it’s like with an angel.” Another leered, looking him up and down. Despite the situation, Aziraphale found himself blushing.

He felt a shift behind him and he realised his wings, using them with all their force to drive the demon backward mid-jump. He flew over the wall, or he would have done, if not for the warding. Aziraphale didn’t turn to see what it did to the unfortunate demon, but if his scream was any indication, it wasn’t pleasant.

…

Crowley sat up in bed. He had been having a nightmare again. He reached blindly for Aziraphale, hoping to block out the screams with a kiss. He found himself alone, his pounding headache intensifying meant only one thing. Aziraphale was in trouble, big trouble. He snapped his suit into being and raced down the stairs. Out in the garden he could hear someone begging. “Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you?” He roared, racing around to the back garden.

What he saw stalled him. The remains of a demon were splattered up his wards, curving in a dome up over their heads. Two more were prowling around the angel, keeping clear of his hands and his wings. One summoned a cruel looking device that Crowley recognised only too well as a cat o’nine tails. One from Beelzebub’s own collection. The whip snared Aziraphale’s arm and Crowley loosed a cry of rage. The angel glanced around to him, staring at him without recognition. His eyes glowed blue with holy wrath, the sheen spreading over his skin. His true form spilling out as more wings shivered into existence. They were covered in eyes that saw him in every dimension, every form.

Crowley went to move towards him and found himself held in a miracle so strong that it almost burnt. Aziraphale wouldn’t let him interfere. He was deaf to his shouts. Instead he wound the demon in by the whip, a frantic tug of war starting on the other end. Obviously, he had been told to expect an easy mark in the angel, he could see his life before his eyes, but he was trapped within the wards, no slipping home in time for tea, no retreat.

All it took was a palm against his forehead. There was a flash of light and a scream that barely had time to form before it winked out of existence. When the light faded, all that was left of the demon was a scorched patch of lawn.

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale fight, never seen him _smite_. He had been so stupid all these years, thinking he was sweeping in to rescue his angel, duelling men who questioned his honour, appearing in the bastille. Every instant was Aziraphale flirting, letting himself be saved. He was a principality, guardian of the eastern gate, he was supposed to lead a legion in the Great Wart That was Written. Crowley shivered as he realised this could have been him on that very first day in Eden, he could have been ashes, but the angel had never even considered harming him.

The remaining demon went to run, despite the fact that there was nowhere to go. Crowley saw him reach into his pocket, saw him twisting back to face the pursuing angel. He raised the black power to his lips and blew, a tongue of hellfire shot forward, snaring the angel in its grip. Crowley’s scream was so loud that the air itself shattered, the miracle that held him fractured and he fell to the lawn. It could only mean one thing. No. No. No. Not Aziraphale. Not his angel, not like this. Not in this fortress he had built to protect him.

He had the demon in his grip in an instant. Bones cracked beneath his grip and the flame stopped. Crowley stared into the fog where it had been. The blue glow unfolded itself, towering over the cottage, so immense that its true size was lost in the fog. “Zira?” Crowley breathed. The angel hummed in his mind. All Crowley wanted to do was torture the demon in his grip until he chose to die. But Aziraphale reached out, a ray of pale blue light, and touched it to the demon’s chest. The smell of sulphur redoubled and the demon was burning. Slowly, painfully. There was no mercy, no remorse, only the cold wrath of an angel. Crowley held him still, letting Aziraphale torture the demon who would have taken him away.

As soon as he was gone, the blue glow in the mist flickered and collapsed. Crowley ran towards it, watching as it reformed into his fussy little angel in a torn-up dressing gown and pyjamas. Blood soaked the arm that had been torn by the whip’s cruel teeth. He whimpered on the lawn. Crowley collapsed beside him, checking for any singe, any proof that he had been burnt before he healed the angel’s arm. He was whole. He was here with him.

Crowley pulled him to his chest, murmuring softly as he stared up at the sky. He didn’t understand what kind of intervention had saved him from the flame. He thanked Her anyway.


	11. Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ocotober 11th - Pumpkin
> 
> Crowley is having some intrusive thoughts

They were back at Crowley’s flat in London. Aziraphale had protested, wanting to stay in the cottage, but Crowley was shaken. It was too big, too many corners for an enemy to wait in, too may places where Aziraphale could be out of sight.

The open plan space of his Westminster flat was perfect. He could watch every move the angel made. He could watch the way he covered the angry scar on his arm, the way he wouldn’t use it to pour the kettle without bracing himself first. He could feel himself retreating into one of the dark moods that overtook him every century or so. Normally it happened because someone had flirted with Aziraphale in front of him. This was so much worse. Someone had tried to take him away.

Aziraphale was being so gentle with him, so quiet that it made him burn. He should be taking care of the angel, not the other way around. After a few days the angel had had enough. Crowley walked into the kitchen to find him drenched in red, a knife in hand. “Aziraphale?” He demanded, pulling the knife from his hand. “Are you hurt?” He asked, panicked.   
“Love … I was carving the pumpkins.” He said softly, taking the knife back and vanishing the mess that covered him. “You want to help?” He asked, nodding to the pile of pumpkins on the counter.

“Did you go out to buy these?” He frowned.  
“A grocer found himself compelled to make a delivery.” Aziraphale said with a sly smile.  
“Christ Zira I can’t even sleep, can I?” He asked, thinking of all the things that could have happened, Hastur at the door instead of a grocer, his hallway engulfed in hellfire.   
“Love, I’m still here, relax.” He said, rubbing his hands down his arms. “You and I are going to carve these pumpkins and decorate the flat. We’re going to have fun and you’re going to smile. There’s only one demon here, and I think I proved I can take care of him.” He said.

Crowley nodded, picking up the knife and a pumpkin. He swallowed, trying to focus on his task the hand on his back, the angel wrapping his arms around him, kissing the back of his neck. He hummed, the angel knowing exactly how to make him unwind. Within an hour the flat was looking like a crypt. He ignited the candles on every surface with a click, and Aziraphale knew he had his usual demon back.


End file.
